


Epics

by starryeyedboxes



Category: Septiplier - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Septiplier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyedboxes/pseuds/starryeyedboxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writer!Mark and Artist!Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epics

**Author's Note:**

> So want to know something funny about this story? I don't remember writing it! I was in a hotel room at 3am trying to stay awake and when I woke up, this was written in my phone's notes. I had to write the ending since it wasn't finished apparently, but I don't remember ever coming up with this idea. 
> 
> Also: this is unedited, so I apologize for any mistakes! Editing is for chumps. (just kidding, I just don't have the patience to read what I wrote considering I don't know if I even like this.)

As Mark sat at his desk with a purple pen twirling between his fingers, he stared outside of his hotel room window, the bright moon cascading pale light on everything below. It seemed so crisp, the ground far down from where he was looking. Standing up and sliding the cool glass aside, he felt the crisp air rush across his skin due to the now opened window, the chill biting at the surface. 

It was oddly refreshing.

As he sat back down on the desk chair, he tapped that same pen on his bottom lip before pulling it in his mouth so his teeth could mindlessly chew on the tip. It was a bad habit he had gotten himself into, and it wasn't uncommon for him to actually break these pens he chewed on. In fact, if Mark thought about it enough, he was pretty sure that this was the third pen he had gone through in the last two weeks.

With the chilly air refreshing his warm skin and clearing his fuzzy thoughts, he took in a deep sigh to help him concentrate better. 

A slightly worn notebook lay in front of him, one edge bent, the other torn, the pages scrawled on with words and several lines cutting through sentences. The papers inside were much messier than the cover hinted at, but nonetheless, his thoughts were just as unorganized as this notebook. 

This particular page he was on had several paragraphs scribbled within the margins, various things highlighted, different phrases underlined. Mark was desperately trying to figure out where things in this story worked, where they didn't work, where they fit, where they didn't fit. It was an ongoing cycle, one that while incredibly familiar, was always unwelcome.

He leaned back in the hotel's chair while he took a sip of his coffee. There was no steam as the blackened drink had been brewed long ago, but he still had clung onto the hope that it would help keep him awake as he forced the cold drink down his dry throat.

Mark desperately wanted something to write. It was exhausting staring at the same filled lines with content that had no particular meaning to him. He wanted a story, a poem, a script, something to remind him that he in fact was a writer. And a good one at that.

He pulled the pen back out of his mouth, wiped off the small amount of saliva he had left behind, and began twirling it between the same three fingers again, the utensil flipping between each digit. Mark was definitely becoming a creature of habit.

But, he sat there utterly defeated, his body slumped in his seat. A strong headache was sneaking up on him, and admittedly, he was slightly glad for it. It gave Mark the excuse to retire to bed for the night and try again tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day after all.

He switched off the desk light, the small click haunting his mind as it screamed of his failure yet again. Mark was used to all of these empty hotel rooms for he frequently visited them, but there was always something horribly daunting about that light switch going off while empty pages rested in the dark. Each hotel room had a different click for their switches, but nonetheless, it weighed heavily on him all the same.

As he pulled himself in bed and pulled the covers up to his chin as he reclined on his side, he let out a shaky sigh, the blank wall in front of him suddenly fairly interesting. He traced patterns into the small shadows as his head pounded from the lack of sleep. Mark desperately wanted to stay awake, to think of something to etch onto paper, but alas there was nothing that would come to mind. It was blank. 

His mind was incredibly blank.

The next day was not as refreshing as that cold air that caressed his skin the night before. Mark sat in his desk at school, the professor in front speaking of symbolism and themes found within a book he had already read three times prior to this class assignment. 

The professor droned on as his own thoughts ran rampant and wild. He romanticized scenarios of sitting in a small apartment in New York, his smile bright as he holds a copy of his next, but certainly not first, published book. The sky is gloomy, just the way he likes it, and his coffee is a light tan, just the way he always made it. There's a stereo in the background, his favorite band playing through his speakers as he flips open the first page, his eyes alight with drive.

Mark wonders if this should be the story he should write about-- if his classroom daydreams should be translated into clearer images. He had enough of these to work with, but there was something far too intimate to translate into a story or a poem. Those thoughts are much too private to form an entire development off of. 

So he scraps that notion.

As Mark glances over his shoulder, desperately looking for something to throw his attention to, he catches sight of a brunette sitting a few seats behind him in the lecture hall. The man looked up, and Mark found himself lost in ocean-blue eyes, ones that resemble the stormy sea often described in extravagant adventures. While he was sure it was pure exaggeration to make that bold of a statement, or maybe it was the writer within him that needed something creative to latch onto, his throat slightly dried as his classmate gave a polite wave.

Mark quickly returned the gesture and spun back around, thoroughly embarrassed he had been caught staring so intensely. But he couldn't help himself as he turned around again a few minutes later and saw the young man equally not paying attention to the lecture while he chewed on his bottom lip and focused on his desk. 

Mark noticed his right hand smeared in graphite, the metallic silver shining in the fluorescent schoolroom lighting. 

He turned back around completely terrified at the thought of being caught a second time, and returned to his pen, flipping it around in his fingers as always. Mark hated this gesture entirely, but he knew that he would still do it regardless, the habit too hard for him to break. 

The next class meeting was that Thursday, and Mark returned to the lecture hall a tad early so he could find a seat near that young man who had graphite on his skin. He would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued by him, but when he found an empty seat near the general vicinity of where the other student resided last time, he was surprised to see him walk in and take a seat where Mark had sat last time. 

With a quirked eyebrow, he watched as the man with grey streaks lighting his hair pulled out what looked like a sketchbook, the cover tattered and covered in small drawings and random images. Mark sighed as the professor began to speak again, and before he knew it, his usual choice of a purple pen fell between his teeth once more, the plastic denting with each bite.

It was excruciating listening to the professor ahead drone on, but when he dismissed the end of class, Mark took his time to leave. He watched the slightly grey haired student leave his seat to speak with the professor about something. Mark took an even longer time, his curiosity strongly dancing on the fine line of being intrigued and being incredibly nosy. 

But he was surprised when the student waved goodbye to his professor and exited through the door on the left, a notebook left abandoned on his desk. Mark pondered taking it or not, but decided to as he passed the aisle that young man was siting in. Grabbing it, he saw "Jack McLoughlin" scribbled on the front in unique handwriting. 

As he crept down the rest of the way to greet the professor, he saw that he had already departed as well, the room completely void of everyone except for Mark. 

That night, as Mark sat at his desk unsurprisingly twirling his purple pen, he looked back out the window, desperately hoping for some sort of desperate idea to form within him. But he sat there for a few minutes before he sighed, defeated yet again. 

The moon was no longer full, but the light outside was still vivid. Mark cursed himself when he looked back down at his notebook, the words on the page still as empty and lifeless as he remembered. There was no spark, no creativeness to it. It was awfully bland.

As the writer began chewing on his pen yet again, he accidentally kicked something on the ground as he fidgeted in his seat. When he looked down, he saw his book bag resting on his hardwood floor. 

Pulling the pen out of his mouth and casting aside, he pulled his bag into his lap and retrieved what was slightly weighing it down. 

Jack's sketchbook. 

He opened the front cover and was greeted with some rough sketches and works in progress. They seemed to have been for practice. 

However, the more Mark studied each page he turned, the more he grew enamored by these drawings. There were tons of finished pieces. He saw a full page of an incredibly realistic drum set, background and all. Another of animals. There were wolves in the snow, or a hyper realistic sketch of a butterfly on a flower. Mark found himself chuckling as he saw a page filled with dinosaur doodles, various ones crossed through, others being comical drawings. 

But what surprised him the most was when he flipped to another page, and saw himself staring back at him. Well, in some words or another. 

It was a profile view of him at his desk in class, his chin resting in his left hand while the right held up his pen to his lips. Mark looked deep in thought here, and after a few moments, he realized that he had been holding his breath the entire time. 

He studied the details, the curves, the slight eraser marks, and even the way some of the lines were smudged. Mark recalled Jack's hand once covered in graphite from what he assumed was from the pencils he used to sketch. He must've been drawing in this book when they waved to each other. 

With a flushed face, Mark turned to the next page, still slightly nervous at what he may find. As he questioned if it would be another one of him, he couldn't say he was disappointed when it was. They weren't as detailed as the first, but there were a few quick drawings of him writing notes, another of him with his head down on his desk, probably napping from a long night before. There was even one of him leaning back in his seat, his legs stretched out comfortably.

Jack was awfully talented. 

Mark shut the notebook, a strong sense of guilt washing over him. He felt like he had violated something incredibly personal, and he soon realized he probably shouldn't have gone through it. He wasn't an artist, so the thought of this being incredibly personal never particularly crossed his mind. However, when Mark imagined his own notebook getting read through, the one filled with all of his writings and stories, he was quickly ashamed of what he had done. It was too little too late, but Mark was awfully guilty about what he had done.

Hopefully Jack wouldn't be too mad. He would admit it of course-- after all, Mark was the one who had to return the sketchbook in the first place. But the more he thought about how that student in his class had actually drawn him, not once, but a few times, the more his smile deepened.

He pushed Jack's book back into his book bag. They didn't have class until the following Tuesday, so he would have to return it then. There was no other way for him to contact Jack. 

But he turned back in his desk chair, stared at his notebook, and slightly grinned. He ripped out what little he had accomplished, crumpled it, and tossed it into the nearby trashcan. With a determined mindset, and his pen firmly between his fingers, he pressed the tip to his paper and watched as the purple ink flowed across. 

Tuesday finally came around, and Mark was awfully nervous. He held his own notebook in one hand, Jack's sketchbook in the other as he walked up to a desk in the back. He impatiently waited for his classmate to arrive, and for a while, he was worried Jack wasn't attending today. 

But as the hand on the clock almost marked the beginning of class, Jack finally came in. Mark was surprised to see him for some reason, but when he sat down next to Mark with an incredibly warm smile, he felt his heart skip a beat. 

The professor was in the front of the class, but he hadn't started lecture yet. This was it. This was the time.

"Hey," Mark greeted, his smile awfully nervous. "I'm Mark."

Jack's eyes slightly widened, his cheeks turning a light pink. "Sean. But please call me Jack."

"I, uh-- well, you see..."

"You have my sketchbook don't you?"

Mark paused. "What? How did you know?"

"It's sitting on your desk."

He quickly looked down and his face reddened at his flop. With shaking fingers, he handed it over to Jack who was very obviously avoiding eye contact, both of them clearly awkward at the situation at hand. 

It was Mark who had spoken first. 

"I'm really sorry, I do admit I looked through it."

Silence. 

"Jack, I'm really sorry... I kind of didn't think it through. That was probably an invasion of your privacy, so..."

More silence. 

Jack was staring down at his notebook, cheeks incredibly red, eyes fixated in front of him. His hands were neatly folded in his lap, but he didn't stir. 

"So," Mark continued to break the quiet. "I kind of... Wrote this for you." 

Jack finally looked up with a shocked expression as Mark handed him a notebook. When he explained it was on the first page, the artist flipped open the cover and saw it was a short story, the words filling each line. He flipped through a few more pages and was very surprised to see it had actually gone on for quite a while. 

He met Mark's gaze with a quirked eyebrow. "What is this?"

"I saw a drawing of a man wielding a really cool sword.... Somewhere in the back I think. He looked like he had gone on a pretty epic journey... So I sort of gave him one."

Jack tentatively looked back at his sketchbook and flipped to the back pages, where after a few flips, he found what Mark was talking about. He had drawn a random character holding a sword above his head, the weapon's design incredibly detailed and put together. He flushed when he realized what Mark had done for him. 

"You actually gave one of my characters a story?"

"Sort of," he mumbled in response, still terribly embarrassed. His hand was running the back of his neck while the other was desperately clinging onto his pen. "I wasn't sure what his name was-- if you even gave him one, I mean. I just thought it would be a nice gesture considering I pretty much invaded your personal privacy..." 

He watched as Jack skimmed through some of the words, his eyes still widened slightly. A few moments later, he closed both books. 

"Y'know, Mark?" He swallowed hard. Uh-oh. "I'm not mad you went through my sketchbook. Embarrassed, yes. But I'm not entirely mad."

Something washed through Mark's veins. What was it? Relief? Happiness? Serenity? He had no idea. 

"I just-- I feel guilty you wrote this entire thing for me... This is incredibly long..."

And Mark let out the biggest sigh, the oxygen leaving his lungs as he settled more comfortably into his chair. The fact Jack wasn't ready to kill him took a large weight off of his chest. Jack being guilty, however, made him chuckle.

"Jack, you don't need to feel guilty. I'm the one who should be, and trust me, I definitely am. But seriously. I'm a writer. It gave me really cool inspiration when I had been awfully stuck for a while."

Jack's lips curled into a lopsided smile as he tilted his head slightly. "Really now? Do you write a lot?"

"Sort of. I mean, my dream is to make a living as a writer of course, but I try writing every night. This," he pointed at his notebook on his companion's desk, "took me all weekend though. I'm proud of it, but it definitely needs to be worked on... But I needed it done when I returned your sketchbook..."

"Well," Jack mewled, "I'm impressed, Mark was it?" He nodded. "I feel awful that you had t'spend your entire weekend on this, though..." His hand ran softly over the notebook, a small smile on his face as he looked down at the cover. "Thank you."

Mark shook his head. "No, no. Thank you. I seriously had the worst writer's block." He noticed that the professor had begun talking, so he dropped his voice low. "It's amazing what came out of your drawing. I seriously have to thank you."

"How about as your thank you, you buy me a cup of coffee after lecture?" His voice was incredibly small and it almost sounded like he regretted asking it.

But Mark's heart skipped again, and a wide grin surfaced on his face. Jack returned it shyly, his cheeks redder than before. It was clear some of his nervousness had shredded when Mark hadn't declined right away. 

"It would be my pleasure, Jack."

"Maybe you and I could talk about this epic tale," he noted as he opened to the front page, his fingertips brushing over the indented words. He glanced at the clock on the nearby wall. "I got three hours to read through this. I'd love to hear more about how you took this guy afterwards." 

With an energetic nod and with his heart in his throat, Mark chuckled.

"I'd be more than happy to, Jack."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated! Also, the second part will be an epilogue. It doesn't need to be read since this can very much stand on its own.


End file.
